The Big Bang Theory
by Kristi
Summary: Hawkeye and BJ take their relationship to the next step. Disaster ensues. Part 3 of the How it Happened arc. Gentleman Doctors, March 1956. BJ/H slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: "The Big Bang Theory"

Author:

Pairing: Hawkeye/B.J.

Genre: PG13, romance, coming out, 50s, postwar, bad/real?sex

Summary: Go back in time to the beginning of Hawk and B.J.'s relationship, when they were working out how to be together as a couple, in the 50s, and decide to take their relationship to the next level.

Timeline: March 1956  
Part of the Gentleman Doctors series  
Part 3/4 of the How it Happened arc

"The Big Bang Theory"

While B.J. was moving into the Yellow Monstrosity, Hawkeye was still a distant memory in Crabapple Cove. It took a series of awkward letters and apologies at the end of a long journey for B.J. - and a two-year goodbye for Hawkeye - that led Hawkeye to B.J.'s door.

He came with two suitcases, a trunk, and a crate of books on their way. B.J. talked confidently about getting him an interview at Oceanview General Hospital, whose director had recently expressed need for surgeons. Hawkeye, looking tired and overdressed for California spring, but full of quips, carried his suitcases upstairs while B.J. led him from one room to another, shy of the big empty spaces.

"I'm putting all of Erin's toys in the back room, to keep her near me while I'm in the kitchen. If I get a television, that's where it'll go. I can't decide if I want the record player in the front room or rec room - what do you think?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "I like a little music over dinner."

"Yeah, you're right," B.J. said. "C'mon, bedrooms upstairs."

Tension mounted as they climbed the stairs; Hawkeye couldn't ignore B.J.'s presence before him. The hall was a u-shape with a French window at the front, letting afternoon light into the second floor. Two doors opened off the stems of the U and two more at the base.

"Lots of rooms up here," Hawkeye said.

"There's an attic, too," B.J. said. "Or a 'garret,' as the real estate people called it." He pointed to doors. "Those two are empty. Bathroom at the end. I, ah. I took this one. I put your stuff . . ." B.J. moved to the next room, second to the end.

Hawkeye stood with B.J. in the threshold. His trunk was the only personal touch in the white room, save the black dot of his shaving kit on the second-hand dresser. The room was sparse aside from the bed and a small, empty bookshelf.

"It looks . . . comfortable," Hawkeye said.

B.J. stood in the doorway, looking at him. "It's . . . it's okay, right? It's the second-biggest one -"

"It's perfect," Hawkeye said. "Yours is . . . ?"

B.J. chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "Down the hall."

Hawkeye couldn't look away, though he knew he should. You're making him nervous, you're making yourself nervous. You don't go from 'Hi, can I live with you?' to 'I wanted to grab your behind on the stairs.'

He set down his bag and started unpacking. B.J. disappeared. The room was fine. Spacious, closet shelves already built-in. Hawkeye became aware of a presence. He looked up. B.J. was leaning in the doorway, watching him. Hawkeye dug into the corners of his suitcase.

"Not for nothing, I didn't come here for the weather," Hawkeye said.

"Good," B.J. said. "I didn't ask you to move in because I needed the rent."

Hawkeye looked up. B.J. fiddled with the thumb lock and avoided his eyes. "You want to come down for a drink?"

A bubble of hope worked its way up Hawkeye's tight chest. "Yeah."

* * *

That was six months ago.

Tonight, B.J. Hunnicutt was in for a night of romance - or else. Hawkeye showered, shaved, spritzed, combed. He'd laundered the sheets and aired the curtains. He loaded the record player and put a candle on the dresser.

He felt nervous, as if they hadn't been circling the landing pad of this night for a month. But those were the preamble times, when they were-and-weren't . . . whatever they were. Just kidding. In love. Permanent roommates. B.J.'s hand on Hawkeye's back in the kitchen; Hawkeye's innuendo over morning coffee. The laundry fight that ended in a tussle among the downy linens - is that the bleach crayon in your pocket or are you happy to see me?

"It can't be both?" Hawkeye said with his arms around B.J.'s neck, his heel hooked where he'd dropped his roomie onto the fresh shirts stacked on the carpet.

It could have happened then. _It_ could have developed from any number of pleasant opportunities as they tumbled 'round the bases. They lived together as 'just friends' even as they kept accidentally making out when the wine flowed or the planets were in phase. There was even the night they snuggled in Hawkeye's bed atop their research. But last week they said "I love you" and any hesitancy was now becoming ridiculous.

Not that there hadn't been reason to take it slow. B.J. was still . . . nervous, or something, Hawkeye couldn't get a read on him. And Hawkeye, though his libido was strumming like a tightly wound violin, was afraid if he bet the house, he'd lose. Increasingly, he was falling utterly down, down in love with a five year old whose crayon masterpieces he hung up in his office at the hospital. Hawkeye could lose a whole lot of comfort if he gropey-jokied his way out of B.J.'s life.

But then B.J. was coming through the door in his work suit with a smile. Of course, he knew Hawkeye was Up to Something the moment he walked in the door - the place smelled better than it had all week, for Hawkeye had finally picked up Mount Laundry in the den. Hawkeye didn't turn around as he heard B.J. coming down the hall into the kitchen, kept his back to him as B.J. came up behind him and reached around to steal the wine glass from his hand.

"What's all this?" puffed into his ear. B.J. slipped as his free hand around Hawkeye's waist.

"Hi." Hawkeye poured a second glass, let B.J. keep his, as the taller man held him trapped against the counter.

They kissed. B.J. hadn't been raised to be allowed to show affection to a man the way he'd secretly, subconsciously desired to do. But he was coming around. He certainly knew how to kiss when he let himself enjoy it. Hawkeye - not immune to societal pressure - had never been in a full-out relationship with a man, but he seemed to have a switch in his brain he could flick when he deemed it to his benefit to tune out the world.

"Coffee, tea, or me?" Hawkeye said against B.J.'s lips.

B.J. chuckled and nipped at Hawkeye's smile. "How about dinner. What _is_ this fantastic goop I smell?"

B.J. wouldn't leave his side while he finished the elaborate meal. While they caught up about what they did all day, Hawkeye could hardly move without B.J. touching him, offering to help him, or holding him while he stirred the sauce. It was terribly romantic. . . . Hawkeye finally snapped and, in a controlled fit of temper, chased B.J. out of "my kitchen."

"This is the line!" Hawkeye gestured hysterically at the arch where sculptured carpet met Spanish tile. "No non-chefs shall pass the line!"

Laughing, B.J. left him. He was reading the paper in the dining room when Hawkeye finally deemed dinner perfect. B.J. politely acknowledged the candle on the dinner table and the Winchesterian music on the record player.

They sat across the expectancy of all this romance and didn't have a thing to say to one another.

"Oh, God," Hawkeye said. "I ruined it. This is too much."

B.J. stabbed his steak enthusiastically. "No, no, this is great, I love this cilantro."

Hawkeye winced. "Um, yeah, well, it seemed interesting. . . . Sort of, you know, special. . . ."

The last thing cilantro came off as to a Californian was 'special.' He'd been trying so hard to be less self-absorbed and he goes and cooks like he's in Maine.

"It's great," B.J. said.

Hawkeye poked at his potato, for once in his gustatory life not caring about the food in front of him. "How was work?"

"I thought you weren't supposed to talk about work on a date." B.J. smiled.

Hawkeye moaned. "That's the problem, isn't it? This is a _date_. We don't do that!" He gestured wildly, seriously endangering his jacket sleeve in the candle flame.

Mozart whined in the background. The corners of the room were too dark to see.

B.J. caught his flailing limb and held it. "I suppose once you've seen your date show up to revelry hung over in boxers and Klinger's heels, the magic has moved to another level."

Hawkeye shucked himself free of the jacket and yanked at his tie. "Frank stole my boots as some fetishist punishment for not making my bunk for a whole week of never."

B.J. toed off his shoes under the table, wiggling his socks against the carpet. "Don't take this the wrong way, hon, but drag is not the look for you."

_Hon_. It still sounded new. But not bad.

"How can I take that the wrong way?" Hawkeye got up and tuned the radio to their favorite jazz show. It was crooners that night, a soft female voice backed by piano and bass. He lit the hurricane lantern so they could see what they were eating, and at last they could talk like B.J. and Hawkeye.

They talked about Erin. About Peggy's new boyfriend's lack of humor. They speculated which neighbor was benefitting from the package man who parked out front each week like clockwork.

"I think it's Lasqiar," Hawkeye said as he lowered the plates into the sudsy sink.

B.J. wedged the leftovers into the fridge behind him. "The eighty-one year old war widow?"

"Sure. It's 'medicinal.' Ever notice how she can't stand up straight?"

"She's got an oxygen pump!" B.J. hipped the door shut.

"An excellent excuse, in fact -"

B.J. grabbed Hawkeye by the sudsy hands and spun him into a swift embrace. Quick and opportunistic, Hawkeye went in for a kiss.

Expectation danced in the shadows of the night, but by mutual understated compromise, they weren't ready to bring it to realization. B.J. stepped backward, into the dining room, holding out his hands. Hawkeye followed. The candles burned low and the radio hissed soft music; their stocking feet shuffled half-heartedly on the grass-green carpet in a slow revolution. B.J. set Hawkeye's hand on his hip and wrapped his arm across his shoulders, cradling his hand against his chest.

"You feel good," B.J. said.

"You're no dough boy yourself, you big hard-body."

B.J. grinned at the wall over Hawk's shoulder because he turned shy when he received a compliment about his looks. B.J. came from a friendly, asexual, Christian background; at ten he shot up like nuclear corn. He was used to thinking of himself as skinny and, now, balding (he spent far more energy caring about his expanding forehead than Hawkeye thought the situation deserved). He was proud of his _health_ - the body is a temple, et cetera - but he thought that _sexy_ was something that happened to other people. Ever since Hawkeye figured out that B.J. had gone through life feeling well-liked but not _desired_, he pitched a battle of flirtatious attacks set on making B.J. feel like the love muffin he was.

So far, he hadn't won a single battle. But it sure was a hell of a war.

As for this night's campaign, Hawkeye's hands were in B.J.'s back pockets and B.J. was pretending he wasn't pretending he didn't notice. Hawkeye brought their hips together, swaying to the music, and sucked lightly on the nerve-rich skin covering B.J.'s subclavian artery.

B.J. huffed a cloud of hot air on Hawkeye's neck. "You're so _sexual_."

Hawkeye brought the whole front of their bodies together and worked one hand under B.J.'s shirt, teasing his spine, the other down the waistband of his trousers. B.J.'s hot mouth was now on his neck, down his collarbone, kissing his lips.

Hawkeye drew back so he could read B.J.'s reaction. "Do you want to go upstairs? I mean, I wanted this to be special for you, because . . ." he couldn't bring himself to say the words 'first time' to a grown man. "Say something before I go and get _romantic_ again."

B.J. squeezed him. "Yeah."

"What?"

B.J.'s smile was unfamiliar, near-shy, but his gaze held. "Hawkeye, you didn't think I knew this was a seduction? I was wondering when you were going to pull one of your stunts to get me into bed. I just hoped I wouldn't have to wait for Radar to show up in an Army jeep. Or Klinger in a fuzzy pink robe."

Hawkeye felt it gentlemanly of him to feel appropriately chagrined. "Yeah, well. . . . Are you sure?"

* * *

continued > 


	2. Chapter 2

Hawkeye felt it gentlemanly of him to feel appropriately chagrined. "Yeah, well. . . . Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He didn't sound like 'yeah.' He sounded like 'oh God.'

"We don't have to," Hawkeye said.

B.J. held him at arm's length. "I'm a little nervous, Hawk. I guess that's normal. I mean, this is it. Not just what we're about to do, but I told you I don't just go to bed with anyone - I mean, not that there's anything wrong with - not that you just - Can we go back to the kissing?"

Hawkeye kissed him. "You're adorable and I love you."

B.J. sighed. "I love you too."

They walked up to the bedroom holding hands, carrying the hurricane lantern to light their way. Hawkeye felt unsure what to say now that he'd gotten his victory. At the door to B.J.'s room - the bigger room, the one Hawkeye had been subtly trying to move into these months - they kissed. And kissed. B.J. had him up against the door before he could get it open.

They stumbled into the room, barely setting down the lantern without burning the house down, kissing, hands sliding under clothes, shuffling to the bed, stumbling over trousers around ankles. They landed together on top of the covers. Hawkeye was reminded of that hot night in Maine, the heavy press of an enthusiastic, newly queer B.J. making love to him while the curtain hung still in the humid air. Now, Hawkeye walked his fingertips down B.J.'s muscled back, taking in this oh so masculine body limned in flickering light.

B.J.'s tongue explored the expanse of his naked torso, giving Hawkeye a chance to really look at the golden-skinned man before him. God, he was lovely - long legs, gentle hands. Hawkeye loved hands - amazing things, the hand, able to grasp, cup, soothe, massage. Or do all those things at once, as B.J. worked his way down down down to . . . oh yeah. He was headed to that thing Hawk had been fantasizing about for almost a month . . . several months . . . well a guy thought all sorts of things when he was alone with his thoughts. Hawkeye swallowed hard as he watched B.J. Hunnicutt lick his lips, part them wide, and take his cock in his mouth. Hawkeye hissed. It was B.J. and the _thought _that B.J. doing that to him _at last_, and the thought that it was real, and that B.J. probably hadn't done this before.

Snap of pain. Hawkeye twitched.

"Sorry," B.J. said.

"Careful the teeth," Hawkeye said.

"Sorry, a little nervous." B.J. said again. He licked a line over the underside, where his incisor caught. That was better, felt good. He probably wasn't introducing germs to an open wound, Hawkeye told his overactive doctor brain.

B.J. was sucking now. Head bobbing. Oh. Okay. This was . . . okay. Hawkeye reclined on the pillows and closed his eyes. It was nice. Sweet. . . . The lurid noises were one part hilarious one part intensely erotic given what was causing them. After several minutes, Hawkeye couldn't deny it: this just wasn't going to take him there. B.J. was losing suction every time he went down and he wasn't grasping the idea of either getting the whole thing in his mouth, or using his hand. Hawkeye felt badly, he didn't want to put off his lover from the gloriousness of the blow job. But on the other hand, he couldn't fake an orgasm like women could (and Trapper, somehow). Hawkeye reached down and caressed B.J.'s arm.

B.J. stopped. He didn't look up - he was embarrassed, Hawkeye realized with a twist of sympathy. He hid his face and hugged Hawkeye's hips.

"It's okay." Hawkeye smoothed his hair.

"I thought I was prepared," B.J. said. "I read about this - hell, I've _done_ this, you know? From the other side? How do women learn to do it so well?"

Hawkeye didn't need that mental image of Peg, thanks. "I guess the same way we all do. We're all clumsy elephants at the beginning."

"I read a book . . . thing," B.J. said. He reached one long arm under the bed, fished out an underground looking mimeographed thing and passed it up to Hawkeye, still not coming out from his hiding spot.

Hawkeye flipped through it in the dim light while he absently played with the ends of B.J.'s hair. B.J. crept up to the head of the bed and curled around him, against the pillows and headboard, pointing out pages and diagrams. Hawkeye could see the pamphlet meant a lot to Beej, so he was tactful when he responded.

"Well . . . it's good this thing is out there," Hawkeye said. "But it's so short, it covers things in awfully broad strokes. I mean, it only brushes over the whole part about getting to anal sex."

"What do you mean?" B.J. said. "I thought you just . . . lubed up and . . . " He made a gesture with his arm, which set Hawkeye giggling. B.J. blushed. "Nevermind. However you want to do it is fine."

"Oh, Beej," Hawkeye kissed the worry lines on his forehead. "You should have a say."

"Not if I'm clearly an idiot about all this! Dear lord, I'm a doctor, why did I think . . ."

"Have you done it like this before?" Hawkeye tapped a diagram. B.J. followed his finger and looked away.

"Sort of."

"It hurt?" Hawkeye said.

"It didn't work out," B.J. said. "It lasted a whole five seconds, I think, and then he drove me home. It wasn't bad."

"Couldn't have been good," Hawkeye said.

"I was bigger than he was, Hawk, I could've knocked him down if he pulled anything I didn't want. Look, can we get this over with?" B.J. said.

Hawkeye laughed. "And you win the contest of least romantic come-on over a sex-crazed bonobo chimp."

B.J. was quiet, running his hand over Hawkeye's thigh, lost in thought. Hawkeye smoothed his hair back, rubbed his shoulder, wishing he could stop the jittering thoughts in B.J.'s mind. He accepted B.J.'s post-war nervous condition as fact, he certainly understood the veteran's struggle to return to normalcy. He just never thought it would hit B.J., and not in a way that would affect his personal life. Hawkeye had been astounded to discover that Beej was a homosexual, even moreso that he planned to do anything about it.

Sometimes Hawkeye almost forgot they were in love - he was always the first to flirt, the one to suggest some thinly veiled date-like thing to do for fun together; sometimes his own demons whispered that B.J. wasn't really queer and this was just playing house. But here he was, in bed, talking about having had homo sex before and professing interesting in doing some more of it. Hawkeye was trying to be patient, he knew this was all bizarro world stuff to a nice boys from the suburbs. And, okay, what he got out of it? It was a bit of a turn-on, getting to do things to B.J.'s body he'd never have done with his pretty little wife in Mill Valley - and watching B.J. do those things to his.

"What is it?" Hawkeye said.

"I . . . all of this, that we've done so far? It's been good. I don't want to screw it up."

"I.e., with screwing."

B.J. shrugged. He looked so unhappy.

"What's upsetting you? Are you nervous?" Hawkeye said.

"No," B.J. said. "It just seems so - "

"Wait." Hawkeye put up his hand. "The first step to admitting you're having sex with men is saying the words. From now on, we should talk like the grown up doctor types we are."

B.J. sagged into the pillows. "Oh, that's romantic. Okay, here goes: I just don't think _anal sex_ is all that sexy - or fun, even. But . . . I have to admit, I'm sort of interested, if only curious. I guess because everyone else seems so interested and I know you want to -"

"Hey, I didn't say -"

"Hawk, you're subtle as a croquet mallet. I know what you like."

So they were at an impasse. Hawkeye couldn't try a little white lie like, 'it's okay if you don't want to' that worked with Corpsman Goldman. He tugged B.J. into his lap, or at least most of the long-legged body that fit.

He twined B.J.'s hand in his. "Look. I don't think everyone does it - _anal sex_ - all the time - I mean, there'd be serious chafing issues. Yeah, I like it, but if you don't want to, it doesn't mean we can't be together. But - and I only say this because you started it - if I can show you that it's lovely and fun, will you cheer up?"

B.J. rested his forehead against Hawkeye's. "Will you accept 'I'll be open-minded'?" he said.

Hawkeye kissed him. The goal was to turn B.J. back into the wobbly noodle he was dancing with downstairs. He laid him out like something good to eat and kissed him down his stomach, his thighs, massaging and tickling, reminding him that this was supposed to be a celebration of naked sexy fun. Soon B.J. was back in the game, pulling Hawkeye down to him, kissing and teasing in kind. When Hawkeye just couldn't wait any longer, he reached under B.J.'s bed, correctly aiming for the same spot the pamphlet had been hidden. His fingers detected a cool bottle - Johnson's Baby Oil. He straddled B.J.'s thighs while the man watched him drizzle oil on his lower belly like a chicken cutlet.

"I thought . . ." B.J. said.

"I said I was going to show you," Hawkeye said. "By the way, this isn't the same stuff -"

"There's a separate thing of it in Erin's old changing table. That one's just for grownups. I just like how it feels for . . . you know."

Hawkeye grinned: B.J. used baby oil to polish his knob, possibly years ago, for nights when his wife wasn't man enough for him. He tucked that fantasy away for another day. The heady baby powder smell hit his nose. Hawkeye suppressed his wrinkled nose disaffection; they used this stuff in the hospital. He'd introduce B.J. to lube that didn't remind him of diapered bottoms and white cotton cradle cap another time.

Hawkeye slicked his hands over B.J.'s really, honestly completely fabulous abdominals, massaging his hips and thighs with the oil everywhere but where he really, really wanted those lubed hands to be. Soon, he was growling threats and Hawkeye shocked him to silence as he dripped the cool oil down the length of his cock. Hawkeye used his fingertips to disperse the oil well, concentrating on the tip, driving B.J. utterly mad, really drawing out the pre-game show.

"Will you get on with it," B.J. hissed.

Hawkeye could feel B.J.'s eyes on him as he reached behind and lubed himself up. If he could get B.J. to appreciate that this was part of the process, he might see the point of the anal sex thing as more than just point and shoot. Hawkeye crawled up B.J.'s body and got into position. Naturally, he was utterly unconcerned about the greasy handprints he left on the sheets that he'd be scrubbing with baking soda tomorrow.

"My knees aren't what they used to be," Hawkeye said as he braced himself on the pillow on either side of B.J.'s head.

B.J. held onto his hips as Hawkeye slid his body down onto his cock, watching B.J.'s expression.

Bliss. Perfection. He hadn't done this in a while but it was like fucking a bicyclist. B.J.'s eyes fluttered open and they watched each other as Hawkeye rocked down onto his hips.

"Mm, good," Hawkeye breathed.

"Yeah. . . ."

Hawkeye didn't break eye contact as he lifted up and started to thrust, slowly. This was too perfect a moment to rush. B.J.'s hand ran over Hawkeye's body, feeling his stomach and chest as his muscles supported his thrusts, feeling his climb to ecstasy. The other hand felt back to where they were joined; Hawkeye opened his eyes, watching B.J. watch the action in fascination.

"You're big," Hawkeye said.

"That okay?" B.J. sounded worried.

"It's fantastic." It was okay. He was getting used to it with each thrust. It felt good.

Hawkeye braced his weight on B.J.'s shoulders so he could experiment with short, quick, deep thrusts. Stars burst behind his eyes. Oh, he could come very, very nicely like that. B.J. thrust up to meet him as Hawkeye closed his eyes and did some more quick lunges.

B.J. was saying his name. He stopped. Dammit, he was getting close.

"Sorry," B.J. said.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Can we flip over?"

Hawkeye nodded, catching his breath. When he was on his back, B.J. hovering above him, he realized what B.J. was asking. He wanted to take the reins, to fuck him. He was enjoying this. Hawkeye reapplied the oil, made a cradle of his legs for B.J., and drew the man in. And it clicked. B.J. suddenly became a natural lover, the man Hawkeye had briefly met in his guest room in Maine, and had very much wanted to make love with again. B.J. thrust inside him so naturally, just right, just deep enough. He intuited how to find the prostate, grinned when Hawkeye gasped and arched his back. B.J. was watching Hawkeye as he thrust, getting off on Hawkeye getting off on him. They came within moments of one another. B.J. gasped and cried out into Hawkeye's shoulder.

The room was too hot, the storm lantern must have been giving off a hundred degrees. B.J. flopped back onto the pillow. Hawkeye lumbered from the bed and tripped off to the bathroom. B.J. followed a moment later, both pretended the cleanup wasn't embarrassing, and they met again in bed.

B.J. jumped and wriggled away as Hawkeye stuck his cold hands all over him. He giggled, wrestling B.J. back for the stolen warmth. He covered B.J.'s body with his own and kissed him sleepily. To his delight, B.J. spoon up behind him and Hawkeye felt warm and loved and all that romantic rot.

"Was it everything you imagined?" Hawkeye said.

B.J. was quiet for so long, Hawkeye started to grow worried. His babble threatened to come out and risk the mood.

"I'm glad it was with you." B.J. nuzzled his hair, sleep tincturing his voice with a deep slur. "It was perfect . . . because there was you."

* * *

continued >


	3. Chapter 3

Sunlight streamed across B.J.'s eyes. Damn finches. The dawn chorus was out of tune. He reached his arm across the bed, but Peg was already up. Erin needed her bottle . . .

He opened his eyes. Blue walls. Open door, yellow hallway without. No Peg. No Erin, not today. He lived in town, not Mill Valley, and last night he had anal sex with Hawkeye Pierce.

B.J. turned over and pulled the blanket over his eyes, reveling in a few more minutes of night.

It had been . . . nice. Ridiculous at first. Hawkeye had lit candles and put on music. No one had ever done that for him. As he turned the evening over in his mind, he found himself caring less about the sex and more about how close he felt to Hawk. How much he had to have trusted him to do something that intimate, something guys aren't supposed to do at all, ever. But B.J. liked doing it to Hawkeye and Hawkeye liked having it done to him. What did that mean? What did he mean by 'what did it mean'?

He scrubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. This was too much for eight a.m.

Hawkeye had done it before, a lot. Or, had he? Hawkeye talked a big story, but a lot of his babbling was ego. Did Hawkeye care about the women he slept with? Sometimes. What about the men? B.J. couldn't imagine doing what they did last night and not caring about the guy. Everything felt different now. There was no going back. He and Hawk weren't roommates, they weren't playing at this homosexual thing. They were a couple ("couple of what?" rose up a careless voice that sounded like Leo Bardonaro). That was supposed to mean commitment.

Where was Hawkeye?

The house was silent; Piercian evidence was all over the bathroom. Is this what you're signing up for? he wondered. Towels on the floor, black stubble in the sink every morning? Who cleans? Who sees that Erin gets fed and dressed? B.J. rinsed out the sink and hung up the towels out of retroactive guilt for the messes he used to leave Peg every morning in his dash out the door. He was an adult, why couldn't he pick up his towels? Why couldn't Hawkeye now? How did lesbians work out who cleaned and who was a slob?

He didn't have time for sociological studies based on nothing but speculation.

Breakfast was on a warm plate in the oven, and a note was left on the back of an envelope propped on the spoon rest on the stove. B.J. read it over and over as he ate, as if Hawkeye's spiky doctor's scrawl would reorganize itself into more than simply: 'Had surgery scheduled this morning, didn't want to wake you, enjoy the eggs. Left you the car. Love, H.'

Irrationally, B.J. destroyed the note before dashing out the door.

* * *

B.J. went through work that day like butter on a hot skillet. Everyone seemed especially incompetent, from the secretary who lost a week's worth of lab reports to his boss' New Deal-era diagnostic procedures. B.J. had never noticed how slowly the department moved, how long he kept patients waiting, how many useless questions littered the intake forms. All morning, he wished for his squandered Valium prescription. Why hadn't he just kept up with his latest analyst? So what if the old man hadn't known the difference between bisexual and hermaphrodite, he wrote prescriptions all the same. . . .

The useful part about being B.J. Hunnicutt was that he'd banked a lot of perception as being polite and nonthreatening. He could side-step his coworkers without arousing ire. How little they knew about his new life. What would they do if he stood up in reception and said, "My tenant is my boyfriend and last night we had sex." Or if he told even one person - his boss, or Nurse Delta, the twenty-eight year-old with three kids per husband? Talk about unconventional life-styles.

They'd never dream. He saw patients, he followed up with radiology, he did his job. But he felt like he was walking around wearing a Halloween mask, except only he could see that the clown-face was garish.

He felt like his skin was an ill-fitting suit. He didn't like the inhibition he felt from talking too freely with the orderlies or other doctors. Dear God, had he been _flirting_ all this time with other men and never noticed it? Had Dr. Ingelstat patted him on the shoulder so frequently because he knew? Was Inglestat a homo too? Did people talk about them? As far as B.J. knew, there was no rumor about him having an affair with any of the nurses or secretaries. He used to take pride in that - he was too noble to shake the grape vine. What shameful hubris, B.J. thought as he rounded a corner, feeling eyes from the nurses' station track him. Obviously, it's easy to be out of the standard hospital soap operas when there's better mud to be slung at you.

B.J. stood in the men's room, fists on the sink, and stared at himself in the mirror.

_I'm a homo_, he said to the face that used to be familiar. I had anal sex with a man last night and I liked it. I'm a big liar and a fake, I like men, I have a boyfriend, I like fucking men I suck dick I want to be fucked I'm a homo queer sissy fairy bent homosexual I had sex with my boyfriend last night I'm going home to my _boyfriend_ my boyfriend _my_ boyfriend my lover

His hand itched, tched, a sick stretching feeling. B.J. stared, fascinated, as deep maroon blood oozed up between the white knuckles. He looked in the mirror. A starshot pattern of a hundred of himself, repeated, stared back at him in astonishment. _Oh_. He watched his lips in the mirror saying the words. He stopped, horrified. Looked. The bathroom was empty. He stared at himself. Was that strand always so grey? Were his cheeks always so sunken? His expression looked so blank for the hurricane of filthy thoughts battering his mind.

He had to get out of there.

* * *

Hawkeye whistled his way to work, a bounce in his step, and spent the morning carving through Mrs. Frettbaur's gallbladder like an artist. He almost knitted his initials in her viscera, he was so proud, but the AMA looked down upon that sort of thing these days. Old Doc Stroehmann, head of surgery, took him to lunch for the opportunity of praising his work after only three weeks at the hospital. Hawk had a new relationship with the love of his life, he lived in a beautiful city, and his boss was eating out of the palm of his hand.

If only he hadn't picked up the phone when his secretary announced the call.

"Dr. Pierce." He flipped his legs up on the wide cherry desk. His window looked out on the sunny patio hundreds of feet below; on a clear day he could see the park.

"Hawk."

Hawkeye sat back in his desk chair. "Beej! To what do I owe this midafternoon pleasure?"

The line was quiet for a moment. Hawkeye leaned forward, pressing the receiver to his ear.

"Hey, Hawk." B.J. sounded . . . off. Drunk? He wasn't slooping his words to the heavens as he did when he got grandiose. "I, um, was just calling about dinner. Just wondered what you thought . . . if you thought. You know. What should we have."

Yeah, sure. Hawkeye gripped the phone cord. "I don't know, I hadn't thought about it. Are you all right?"

A dry chuckle. Where was B.J. calling from? He didn't sound like he was at work. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Hawkeye turned his chair away from the door. "Listen, Beej, I'm really sorry I had to dart out on you this morning, but I had this patient laid out for me at seven-thirty -"

"No, it's fine, I understand."

Hawkeye smiled into the line. "Honestly, I was disappointed I didn't get to see you wake up -"

"Listen, don't cook anything too, y'know, fancy, okay? I mean, if you want to do dinner. I'm gonna see if Peg will release Erin a few days early."

Hawkeye ground the phone into his fist. "Beej, where the hell are you?"

"Miller's Drugs. In, um, Mill Valley."

The sound of the town made his Reuben turn over in his stomach. One night of magic and Beej was running home to mommy. Outside his window, down in the sunny brick patio, shiny dots of humans went about their lunchtime business.

"All right." Hawkeye wasn't about to fight over the phone like a jealous kid. "Guess I'll see you tonight."

They hung up. Hawkeye rapped a pen on his desk. What the hell was going on? They had a great night. He _had_ to go to work this morning.

They shouldn't have done it on a school night. This wouldn't be happening if he'd picked a whole weekend to stay in bed together. Maybe he could have snuggled away B.J.'s nerves and thirty-odd years of conditioning.

God, last night . . . B.J. had read a damn pamphlet to learn how to make love to a man. A guy didn't get told one thing his entire sexual life and then turn on a dime when he tried doing the thing he always wanted to do but was too scared. Right now, somewhere in the suburbs, was an on-the-fence homo who believed that what he did last night had changed him. It's what everyone thought after his first time: He thought people would be able to read on his face what he got up to at night, that he was less of a man. Well, it wasn't Hawkeye's fault. B.J. knew what he was getting into when they started. ("You're subtle as a croquet mallet.")

There was one man in Hawkeye's life who hadn't been scandalized that he'd gleefully waved goodbye to his homo virginity at age fourteen. Trapper John McIntyre chugged back his martini, looked Hawkeye up and down, and said: "At least you got it over with when you were young and stupid." And then took Hawkeye up against the generator shed. Hawkeye didn't know Trapper's history, but he guessed that he was the first man Trapper had gone hot and heavy with for seven straight months, someone he liked and still had to say good morning to. Hawkeye felt a twinge of guilt - had Trapper been going through something and played it cool? Did Hawkeye habitually send off his lovers confused and anxious? What kind of power was he wielding?

If he couldn't do right by Trapper, and indeed had never done a relationship right, how was he supposed to reach B.J.? Was this how he ruined relationships, with his damn self involvement?

If that phone rang right now, who did he want to hear on the other end?


	4. Chapter 4

B.J. expected that driving up to the little house in Mill Valley would be like going home. But like everything else this day, the town seemed . . . off. Smaller. The little post-war houses stood as faceless as colorless, wood _Monopoly _cubes. Residents' welcoming smiles seemed painted, their little dogs so much scenery. He felt claustrophobic navigating the Studebaker down the wide streets.

He parked at the curb. He didn't know how Peg used her driveway these days.

She was on the front porch with the kid. As B.J. closed the gate and crossed the lawn, Erin took off on her chubby legs, calling 'Daddy Daddy!' in a full kid-voice. No more baby coos; she went to school three half-days a week now. B.J. swept her up and she clung to his neck and for a moment, he was okay. Erin smelled like she always did, baby shampoo and crayons; she still fit in the crook of his arm. He went away from her every week, just like he did for two long years, and she always greeted him with a kiss.

"What's this?" Peg said as he came up the walk.

"Came to see my daughter," B.J. said.

"You can't do that." Peg stood, abandoning her bean shelling. "It's in the agreement."

"Mommy, Daddy is here," Erin announced directly into his ear.

"Okay then," B.J. said. "I came to see you."

Peg looked him over. "Me?"

"Mommy, can I show Daddy how I shell beans?" B.J. set his child down.

Peggy installed Erin before the bean bowls and led B.J. by the elbow inside the house. She stood in the front hall glaring up at him. She seemed taller than he left her.

"You can't do this," she said. "Did you hear her? She thinks you're here to stay. I don't need you confusing her, we have a nice home, finally, it isn't easy by myself -"

B.J. put his hands up. "Peg, she's fine. Can we just sit, please? I'll make you a cup of tea and I promise to explain myself. The orange pekoe, right? Two sugars and milk?"

Peg crossed her arms, her expression unfamiliar. He didn't recognize the wreath decorating the wall over her shoulder. "I drink white peony now. No milk. Fix the tea, I'll get Erin."

She had replaced the old scorched kettle with an automatic and kept the cups where he preferred to put the bowls. With Erin distracted in her room, Peg sat in the breakfast nook and watched him look for things with her bare feet tucked under her skirt. The spoons were in the same place. The house smelled a little different; her bay leaf candles had been replaced by red tapers, a spray of eucalyptus hung over the fridge. The living room was cluttered but clean. He guess that, in her busy life, she still had time to scour the traces of him away. He knew she was dating that sociologist, but he didn't see signs of him anywhere.

So she was still angry. Well, he was angry too.

"How are things?" He poured the water.

"Fine," she said. "Sold a house in Marin last week."

"That's great," he said. "Congratulations, that's . . . I always said you had a talent for real estate."

Peg sipped her tea. "I don't believe those were your exact words, but thank you."

B.J. turned his cup in the saucer. The stuff smelled vile, but it was something to do with his hands. He liked her orange pekoe, what was wrong with that flavor? Maybe simply that he liked it.

"How's Hawkeye?" Peg said. She'd met him, of course, as someone who'd be spending a lot of time with her child. (Not that she'd granted B.J. the same favor with her new guy.) Hawk's infamous humor . . . hadn't gone over well. All that time in Korea, B.J. had thought Peg and Hawk would get along so well. But that Peg had been so much funnier, happier - the girl who held the ladder while he and Leo snuck into their rival fraternity with a kilo of powdered copper sulfate.

"He's good," B.J. said. "Erin's been asking for a kitten. We're thinking -"

"She asks you because I told her no," Peg said. "She's got a dog. That's enough."

Waggles was nine years old and wheezed when he ate. The last time he ran for a ball, Erin's bed was a bassinette. B.J. decided right then to get his daughter a damn cat.

"Okay, you're right," B.J. said.

"Anyway, she's not over at your house very often," Peg said.

"Sure, only every other week." Creative editing, Peg? I have her as much as you do.

Peg watched him over her cup. "I suppose Erin would enjoy a kitten. I just thought that, since you said you said you were done with pets after Waggles, you wouldn't want one."

"Well, Hawkeye's the cat person." He sensed the fight hovering at the edges of his perception; from the corners of the house came whispers from the ghosts of their dead marriage.

"So he'll be caring for it," Peg said delicately.

B.J. sighed. This wasn't the conversation he made the drive out to have. "I said I agreed with you about the cat, didn't I?"

And then, for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, Peg was crying. B.J. stared, rather rudely, shocked. He reached for her, but pulled back: they weren't a touching couple anymore.

"I can't stand how hateful you've become," she said.

B.J. rocked against the ladder-back of the chair. "How - _what_? Peggy - if I've done or said anything hateful, I'm sorry. Honey, please -" He touched her arm now. He couldn't stand to see her cry.

Peg blew her nose on a napkin. "I just hate the idea of you unhappy in that kind of relationship."

"I'm not unhappy." Did he sound unhappy? "Wait - what kind of relationship?"

Peggy gripped his wrist. "How can you be happy with him? You started a family here, you had a life. I don't understand what you think is out there that you couldn't find here."

B.J. looked at the kitchen, down the hall that led to Erin's room. It would be so easy. No more lying, a real family, someone he could hold hands with in public.

"We're not the same people we were," B.J. said.

"We could have relearned together."

B.J. shook his head. "We tried, Peg. God knows, I didn't want to break up our home. I wish you could understand."

Peg stood. He'd made her angry. "I'm so sick of hearing that I don't understand. I'm not some dumb little housewife whose opinions aren't worth anything because I didn't go to Korea!" She upended her teacup into the sink, splashing the hit liquid against the tile.

"Peg, I can't help if the war changed us -"

"Is that what Hawkeye does for you? He was there, he saw you change, he got to be the one who - who changed you!"

B.J. blinked. "I meant you and I changed."

Peg turned away from him and looked out the tiled glass window, into the back yard. He followed her gaze. Overripe lemons hung heavy on the overgrown branches.

B.J. got up from the table. He pushed in his chair and put his teacup in the sink. Peg didn't look at him.

"It's more than just changing," he said. "Life is about more than one or two things. There's all these shades of grey, all sorts of other influences."

His words jangled in his mind. Shades of grey. The woman from his past. The man waiting for him at home.

Peggy shook him off. "Don't lecture, please. I married a man who I knew was attracted to other men - I know about the shades of grey."

"Listen, Peg," B.J. touched her elbow. Peg looked at him reluctantly, only half receptive. "I really wanted to talk to you because I still want to see Erin just like we agreed. I just wanted to be sure that if Hawkeye sticks around, you won't change your mind. Because - I love her and I don't want anything -" he stopped, unable to continue.

Peg turned away from the window, a softer, kinder expression changing her whole bearing. "Oh, B.J. I wouldn't keep her from you. No matter what we argue about. She's separate from our problems."

"She's the best thing in my life," B.J. said.

Peg smiled. "Me too. She's my good stuff."

B.J. nodded.

Peg said, "I think you and Hawkeye should come to dinner with me and Curt."

B.J.'s heart jumped. Oh, dear Lord, there will be blood.

Peg was pulling out her datebook. "- considering the stories you used to write me about him, he sounds like a perfectly delightful dinner companion."

B.J.'s eyes lost focus. God, it was late - after business hours. He kissed Peg on the temple.

"Sure, honey, it's a date. Look, I gotta go -"

And with a kiss for Erin, he was driving across the Golden Gate bridge into town, back to where this long day started.

* * *

Hawkeye was reading in the den when B.J. pulled up. He checked the time: seven p.m. He hadn't chosen to wait in this spot, with its view of the street, because he was worried his lover was leaving him tonight. It was simply the most comfortable room for reading. He'd already colonized the bookcases and established dominance of the desk chair with that bump that supported his wobbly thoracic discs. He wanted to stake his fortress in Hawkeye-land tonight, should that rat B.J. show his face.

Door opened. Closet door. Hangar. Hat on the hook inside the door. Keeps his shoes on because he fastidiously doesn't leave his accessories around the house like some sort of cleaning-accursed elf. Heels click in the hall.

"Hawk?"

The voice of the guilty without. Hawkeye set down his book and kicked his legs off the desk. Several stacks of medical journals joined them. He winced, tried to catch them, and banked a few into the metal trashcan, sending up echoes like he'd invited Thor the God of Thunder for a drink.

"Are you in the den?" Brilliant deduction skills, that one.

An overly tall form blocked out the light from the hall.

"Um, hi," Hawkeye said sheepishly.

B.J. was trying to make himself smaller. He had something in his hand.

"I, ah, stopped at three grocers before I decided to just buy these. I don't know, it's probably stupid, I just thought . . ."

Hawkeye turned on the desk lamp. B.J. had bought him flowers. Not roses, he'd found a store selling wild-looking things - red and yellow. Hawkeye grinned. B.J. cringed. Hawkeye crossed the room and took them before they burned up by force of Hunnicutt humiliation.

"They asked me if I was apologizing to the wife." B.J. followed Hawkeye into his pit of brooding.

Hawkeye dumped the last of his martinis into two glasses and put the flowers in the pitcher. They made the place look less like a room to hang oneself in. Not feminine. Carnations and sticky-curly things. B.J. knew his flowers.

"I made dinner," Hawkeye said as he pulled off the ribbon that held the bouquet together. "Chicken a l'orange and mashed potatoes."

He could sense B.J.'s amusement. "Oh?"

"Kid friendly."

"She's coming this weekend," B.J. said.

Hawkeye nodded. He couldn't turn around. B.J. was either going to say it or he wouldn't, but Hawkeye wasn't going to make it easy. He didn't just sleep with any best friend with whom he'd been through a hellish war.

"Hawkeye." Soft voice. Tentative hand on his shoulder.

Hawkeye turned. B.J. looked miserable. (Good.)

"I'm sorry."

B.J.'s arms went around him and held so tight. . . . Hawkeye felt his anger melting inside his cynical shell. He wound his fingers in the ends of B.J.'s hair and pressed his forehead against his neck.

"I thought you were going back to your wife, you jerk," Hawkeye said.

"What?" B.J. held him by the shoulders to look him in the eye.

"You called me up in a twitch and said you were going back to the suburbs!"

"Because you _left me_ this morning."

"I had a patient!"

"You could've woken me up."

They stood in an air-searing staring contest.

"I'm sorry," Hawkeye ground between his teeth. "I'm an asshole at relationships."

B.J. stepped away. "I'm sorry too. I was not in a 'twitch.'"

"Oh, you were a worm on a hook, my friend." Hawkeye headed to the kitchen to heat up dinner.

B.J. sat in one of the mismatched kitchen chairs and watched Hawkeye stick the foil-covered plate in the oven, then hitch himself up onto the counter across from his . . . 'boyfriend?' B.J. looked the opposite of comfortable on the vinyl chair that Hawkeye liked best for its thick cushion. His arms were folded, he looked like a kid protecting himself from a scolding. Head bowed ponderously, he spoke from the depths.

"Hawk, I'm a homosexual."

Hawkeye stared. Giddiness was bubbling up that he knew was deathly inappropriate but he always did this. His twisted sense of humor always got him in trouble. He laughed. He howled. He dragged B.J. down into shameless mirth with him.

"So," Hawkeye gasped, "how many queer bars and how many guys you've made out with - but not until one night with _me_ -! Well." He affected doctorly pride. "I believe my work here is done."

B.J. cracked up again - but his palms were sweeping at his cheeks. Hawkeye got it, he understood the fear and the shame. He dragged the wood chair around beside B.J. so he could pull the big guy against him while his body hitched in soft sobs.

"It's okay," Hawkeye whispered while he rubbed his back, cradled his head against his shoulder. "We all go through this. It's like a queer Boy Scout badge."

B.J. nodded into Hawkeye's jaw.

"You get one for your first blowjob," Hawkeye said into his hair. B.J. was smiling even as errant tears fell. "One for the first person you tell." Hawkeye thumbed a teartrack from B.J.'s chin. "And one for your first crying jag."

"I guess I missed that at orientation," B.J. said. "Did you? Get all those?"

Hawkeye smiled. "Are you kidding? Dad found me crying into my teddy bear. I was thirty-two."

B.J. laughed. He grabbed Hawk by the scruff of the neck and kissed him. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

B.J. shrugged. "I didn't mean to scare you, or give you any idea other than that I love you, and I want to be with you."

The oven timer went off. They didn't move for a moment, taking a moment.

"I know," Hawkeye whispered.

The oven buzzed again. Life keeps happening. Hawkeye stood and fished the plate out of the oven without potholders. He felt B.J. watching him with restraint, not bothering to scold him for being a stupid surgeon endangering his hands. He brought it to B.J. on a dish towel.

"Something to drink?"

While Hawkeye bustled around the kitchen, B.J. tucked in. The l'orange was dried out and the mashed potatoes had a crust, but Hawkeye didn't apologize like a wife and B.J. didn't make any complaints like a husband. They weren't Ward and June and they didn't have to play by any rules.

"Peg wants us to have dinner with her and her new guy," B.J. said out of the clear blue chipped paint sky.

Hawkeye turned around so fast he sprayed dishwater. "Beej . . . I will suffer your ex-wife as Erin's mother, and she will put up with me as your 'special friend.' But do we really have to co-mingle?"

B.J. propped his fist on his chin. "Hawk, we're a family now. It's inevitable that we're going to have to get along."

"Why is she so tolerant, anyway? Her husband left her for another man, for Christ's sake. When does she come over here with a melon baller and make less of a man out of you?"

"Hawk, she's always known."

Hawkeye turned the soapsuds in his hands over and over like a fluffy, weightless ball. He considered that: B.J. Hunnicutt, evident lifelong homosexual.

"Maybe I'd like to sit down her, too," Hawkeye said.

B.J. raised his eyebrows. "Now you're scaring me."

Hawkeye snickered. B.J. sat back and watched his lover do the dishes, basking in being taken care of. There would be plenty of tomorrows and tomorrows to make up for favors. This was a life together, whatever they decided to make of it. People would find out; they could choose to contain the knowledge or divulge it to selected friends. And there was Erin to consider; eventually she'd grow old enough to ask questions. How do you 'come out' to your own daughter?

For now, they were two men who loved each other, in a kitchen, quietly putting the day to bed, in their yellow house upon a hill.

* * *

One more part in the arc left!


End file.
